


Woodland Eden

by gnostic_heretic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cottagecore, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Hand appreciation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tenderness, The Transgay Gaze is real, Trans Male Characters, Vaginal Fingering, Very Consensual Sex, Yearning, help me i never know what to tag what i write, i don't know if cottagecore smut is a genre but i am doing it anyway, sensual baking, that about sums it up, the sweet trappings of being alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in a forest hut, very vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnostic_heretic/pseuds/gnostic_heretic
Summary: In other words, he can't help but stand there and stare, hopelessly stuck and mesmerised andgay.
Relationships: Lithuania/Poland (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Woodland Eden

**Author's Note:**

> (Before the start, a big shout out to Kaitlin and Liz / maigloeckchen and Pokytoad here on ao3 respectively- because their headcanons and our conversations really influenced the atmosphere of this fic, from the cottage to the trashy romance novels. Love ya! ;0)

_It had all started on Friday_ , he thinks; Friday, when Feliks had woken up at 7 am to drive all the way to Kaunas, only to find Tolys packing his clothes to leave. 

Pondering about it now, as one does when he has nothing better to do than let his own mind wander, it was an impulsive and hasty decision. 

After all, he came to spend a weekend with his boyfriend, right? Why did it matter where they would spend the weekend, as long as they had each other? What is the difference between the disaster that isTolys’ apartment, and this countryside cottage that Feliks sort of knew about, although he had never dared to intrude before. 

As for Tolys, he seemed surprised at first, but he quickly took it as an occasion to give Feliks a glimpse into this part of his own life. In an hour, they were ready to leave, together.

Tolys loaded a small gym bag in the rear seats of his green Lada Žiguli— the old, beaten-up wreck he calls his “car”.  _ Only the essentials _ , he said, as one hour before he had sized down Feliks’ belongings to a couple t-shirts and underwear. The rest of his baggage that he had brought to spend the weekend over was left at his place: no phone, no fancy outfits, none of Feliks’  _ absolutely essential _ skincare products. 

(Tolys said that simply rinsing with water was more than enough to clean anyone’s face. Feliks, terrified, doubted the sanity of the man he had chosen to enter a consensual, committed romantic relationship with.)

“It’s just going to be a couple days. I’m sure you will have fun. Just me, you, and beautiful nature all around us… ”

Those empty words of reassurance, uttered with a bright and wide smile, failed to actually  _ reassure  _ Feliks, who spent the entire car ride wondering whether said house would have indoor plumbing. 

Three more hours of driving, one very lazy evening and a full night of sleep after all that, he can totally see why his worries were, after all, justified to an extent. 

The cottage is small, but it isn’t as bad or messy as he first expected. Tolys keeps it tidy, certainly tidier than his studio apartment in Kaunas. The furniture is simple and sparse, and what isn’t at least a couple decades old seems to come from Ikea. The kitchen looks like it had been there the longest, just about as old as Tolys’ car. Overall, Feliks could see himself enjoy spending a week or two in there. 

A couple of small watercolor paintings hang on the wall, representing what seems to be the woods that surround the house; neither one is signed, and Feliks wonders if Tolys painted those himself. He didn’t say, and he feels too shy to ask. 

However, while there is a bathroom, and there is a shower, the cottage does not have warm water; there is an old couch, but no tv. 

Tolys said they would have books— and sure enough, there is a small bookshelf, but all Feliks can see is cheap fantasy novels. With a romance twist, judging from the poorly-photoshopped, half-unclothed straight couples on the covers, looking at each other’s bodies with an exaggerated and theatrical lust that makes Feliks feel deeply uncomfortable. 

And while his first night there wasn’t so bad, at 11:23 on Saturday morning he knows that the unrest is taking over his thoughts. 

Tolys, who left in the morning to do something in the woods nearby, is nowhere to be seen. Feliks flips the pages of one of his cheap paperbacks distractedly, but the words float through his mind in strings that won’t fully make sense to him, no matter how much he tries.

And just when the rugged half-viking Damien is about to confess his undying love to the beautiful lady Alanna— completely oblivious to the fact that she’s secretly a witch, or wait—  _ was that her lost twin sister Neala? _ , he wonders— the door opens and Tolys is finally back home, with a small basket of mushrooms and his hands full of nettle stalks. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. How was your day so far?”

Feliks shrugs, and he closes the novel without bothering to search for a bookmark. “It was alright. You should really get a new mattress, though, Liet… this one is so bumpy. In the twenty-first century, we have memory foam, you know. I could literally feel the springs poking on my back...”

“You were the one who slept late, though? Maybe it wasn’t so bad.” 

He scoffs at Tolys’ sarcastic little smirk.  _ Can’t argue with what’s true, after all _ . 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. It was bearable.” 

Not only had he slept late, but much to his shame, Feliks is still in his pajamas— the mere thought of taking a cold shower makes him shiver, no matter how sunny it is outside. 

It’s not like he brought many other clothes anyway, nor is there anyone — anyone other than Tolys — who can see him, stuck in the middle of nowhere. Pink shorts and a crop top will do, for the current situation.

It’s not like Tolys is wearing formal attire either: a black-turned-grey Led Zeppelin shirt, a gift from Hungary that dates back to the nineties. His blue jeans and tennis shoes are covered in mud, and so are the yellow gloves he’s wearing to protect his hands. 

“What did you do all morning anyway? Did you get rid of the weeds around the house?”

Feliks gestures towards the bundle of nettle that Tolys is washing in the sink. 

“Oh, this?”, Tolys asks, and he chuckles. “This is going to be our lunch.”

“You… you can’t be serious.” 

“I am, I promise. Have you ever tried?”

“Uhm.” Feliks can’t help but wince a little bit. “No, not really.”

“Well, I hope the meal will be acceptable to Lord Polska’s refined taste, then.” He places the leaves in a pot, and then removes his gloves with a wink. “So does that mean… I’m going to be your first time,  _ again _ ?”

“That’s  _ not funny _ !” Impulsively, Feliks throws the novel across the room— Tolys dodges it by a hair’s breadth. It lands in the sink, gloriously. 

Feliks’ eyes go wide, as his mind frantically wonders whether he just accidentally drowned one of his boyfriend’s books. 

“Oh,  _ shit _ . I’m sorry.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. It hasn’t gotten wet.” 

_ Thank god _ . He can breathe a sigh of relief. Tolys picks it up, and opens it on a random page. 

“You were reading  _ Winter Fire _ ? It’s a wild ride, did you get to the part where—“

“ _ Excuse me _ ,” Feliks interrupts him, “no spoilers, please and thanks.”

“Okay, okay.” He laughs and throws the book back to Feliks, flawlessly—  _ years of basket training paid off, after all _ . “Anyway, I have to get started on making bread before it’s too late.” 

He retrieves a paper bag full of flour from the cupboard, and a small jar of yeast. 

Now that  _ Winter Fire  _ is back into his hands Feliks flips the pages, searching for a familiar sentence or paragraph to find where exactly he left off. Maybe he should have looked for a bookmark, considering that this  _ is  _ going to be his only entertainment for a few more hours. 

“Ah, Feliks?”

“Yes?”

“Damien runs away with her twin at the end of the book. You know, the witch?”

In a heartbeat, the book is in the sink again, and Tolys is bent on the counter laughing.

____ 

The bread-making process is taking longer than expected. With nothing better to do, Feliks sits on the couch, fidgeting with his hair ( _ god damn it _ , he notes, he’s starting to get split ends again) and observing his boyfriend, completely absorbed by his culinary duties.

_ Rye bread _ , or so he said, _ just like in the good ‘ole days. _

Feliks watches Tolys as he kneads with steady, vigorous motions, and he notices— _oh, how he notices_ — the way he draws strength from his back, leaning forward rhythmically, his chest and shoulders tense. 

Tolys’ knuckles are covered in flour, red and raw, and Feliks wonders if his hands are so flushed because of the effort he’s putting into kneading, or— if it might be the aftermath of all that stinging nettle he picked that morning (and let’s be real, he was like, never careful enough). Either way, he can’t bring himself to look away. 

The sour scent of yeast and rye that fills the entire room; the sound of Tolys’ voice, half-humming and half-whispering and old song, whose title Feliks just can’t remember; the strange and mesmerising magic of Tolys’ hands, turning formless flour into a solid, round shape; it all makes him feel hazy, hypnotised. 

Feliks’ mind, far away from the distractions of civilised society, starts wandering into uncanny and weird places. 

_ Wow, I wish I were that bread? Come on, my ass needs a nice kneading, hun...  _

He almost laughs at the absurdity of his own thoughts— but  _ hey _ , this is what happens when a city guy like him is deprived of his Netflix account, and not just that, but even of the boring and reassuring presence of Lithuanian public television. He’d give his  _ life _ , right now, to be able to watch the weather broadcast. 

God, how did he and Tolys even survive, back in the good old days, before television— no, before  _ electricity _ was  _ a thing _ ? With no entertainment other than madrigals and court jesters— well, Feliks thought, he did have an extensive collection of books. 

Also, he had Tolys; they talked a lot, they sang together and told each other stories, of legends and saints, of their memories from the time before they met. They used to walk for hours in the garden, hiding among the roses and camellias, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. 

Feliks’ ears and neck flush and pound at the memory of those short, intimate moments lost in the unfathomable flow of years, decades, centuries. With nothing else to do, it was just the two of them— to keep each other busy. 

A sudden realisation hits Feliks like a hammer on the head, and his feverish state of mind finally makes sense within the larger picture. 

_ God, we used to have so much sex.  _

Tolys has never looked more attractive to him than he does now, with his man-bun and all. 

His old, faded t-shirt is tacky and  _ absolutely disgusting _ , completely covered in flour— baking is dirty business, after all. It’s all the more reasons to take it off: an absolute win-win situation. 

“Are you okay?”

His voice comes as a surprise.

The picturesque daydream of Tolys, shirtless and slightly sweaty as he chops pine logs for the wood oven, suddenly disappears from Feliks’ visual. Instead, his boyfriend is standing in front of him, fully clothed, looking at him like he just grew an extra head. There is no wood-fired oven in the house, either, Feliks remembers. 

“Yes, I… I think I need a shower, actually. To, huh, clear my head.”

The thought of cold water still makes him shiver, but maybe that’s what he needs to come back to his senses. 

______

As it turns out, cold water was not enough to clear Feliks’ head.

Not when he’s touch starved, and worst of all,  _ bored _ , and his head keeps circling back to the same awfully corny fantasies. 

God, how he related to the sickeningly lustful novel covers now— what a twist of fate, truly. 

Sadly, Tolys’ list of essentials did not include the shower robe he had brought along to Kaunas. He finds a towel, though; it’s scratchy and slightly damp, but it will do. With his new, highly fashionable ensemble, Feliks gets out of the bathroom just as horny and confused as before to change into something that isn’t his pajamas. 

On the way to the bedroom, he decides to stop by the kitchen, and there.

It hits him like a train, right in the face. 

Tolys is crouching, shirtless, in front of the oven. 

It’s not a wood fire oven, no. 

But it’s  _ close enough _ , god damn it. 

The hot and pleasant turmoil he had tried so hard to repress with a cold shock is back in full force, clawing desperately between his legs, crawling up his insides. 

It’s not an unfamiliar sight, nor an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s almost like it’s always new at the same time. A growing and eternally changing chimera, such is the spell that draws him to this man. 

And there he is, maybe not an Adonis, but his very personal Leander; his slender and narrow figure, so fragile and yet so masculine, in his own peculiar way. Tolys had the lips of a poet and the hands of a worker, and his pale and freckled skin contrasted with the deep red scars on his chest, furrows dug and sculpted by his own hands. 

Feliks found it hard to explain, but the gentle and nervous way he moved and spoke complimented Tolys’ beauty: the imperfections and asymmetries of his body made him all the more attractive. His body, his striking virility were magnetic to Feliks, drawn to the perfect completion to his eccentric, flamboyant nature. 

In other words, he can't help but stand there and stare, hopelessly stuck and mesmerised and  _ gay _ . 

“You’re done with your shower?”

Tolys doesn’t need to look away from the kitchen to know he’s there. And, like Adam and Eve cast out of Eden, Feliks suddenly feels so aware of his own nudity; at least he has a towel, even in this strange and foreign wilderness. 

“Huh? Yeah, I am done. I was going to get my clothes.”

“So you’re getting changed, finally. After lunch, I wondered if you wanted to take a walk with me.” He turns; a look is enough for him to know that something is up. “Feliks, if something is wrong you should tell me, you know.”

“What?”

“I mean,” Tolys sighs, “I know this is not exactly your thing. But I thought we could try to relax, enjoy ourselves anyway. You’ve been staring at me ever since I got home… I feel like you don’t feel comfortable here. With me.”

Tolys’ fingers twitch, his hands draw closer to his face reflexively. Feliks can read him like an open book, and he feels guilty, and dumb, and like a silly teenager who’s too shy to actually have a conversation about sex— with the one man he’s had sex with approximately a few hundred times, over the span of a few hundred years. 

“Oh, no, Liet,” he murmurs, his voice shaky, as he gets closer to wrap him into a cold, damp hug. “Tolys, no. It’s so  _ stupid _ , no, I’m stupid, the reason I’m acting strange is—  _ god _ , promise you will not make fun of me.”

“Why would I?” 

“It’s just.” He stops for a second, pondering and weighing his words. “You’re like... really,  _ really  _ hot.” 

Tolys’ eyes go wide. “Oh. Uhm. Is that it?”

Feliks nods. “I mean. You know. First your hands, and now it’s like, I walk into the kitchen and you’re just there… shirtless. Casually looking like a god of the forest, or a sexy lumberjack, or I don’t even know, Damien the viking on a good hair day.” 

“Oh my god,  _ please _ .” Tolys laughs, and gently places a kiss next to Feliks’ brow. “I had to take my shirt off because it was dirty, you know. And you have the  _ audacity  _ to call my hair good… in  _ this  _ state.” He taps the top of his bun. 

It is a little messy, indeed, and the scent of yeast lingers on his skin, but Feliks does not care. 

“I actually find it sexy, you know. All that.”

“Oh, really?” 

Tolys wraps his arms tight around his bottom, and with a little effort he picks his boyfriend up. A barely held back shriek leaves Feliks’ mouth, his face now red as a basket of ripe cherries. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,  _ Tolvydas _ ! Let go!” 

“Alright,” he complies, letting Feliks fall on the old couch like a sack of potatoes. 

Tolys is right there where he wanted him to be: on top of him, his lips leaving trails of kisses along Feliks’ collarbone. His bangs brush against the skin of his neck, and it tickles, and it feels so  _ good _ . He stops suddenly, though, and looks at him, deadpan, right in the eyes. 

“Are you okay with this?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I’m talking about sex.”

Feliks rolls his eyes. “ _ God _ , I said yes!”

“I just wanted to make sure.” 

His playful smile is back now, and his hands play with the knot that holds up the towel covering Feliks’ body until it comes undone. 

Naked and sprawled on the couch, Feliks feels like he’s also about to come undone. 

“ _ Tolys _ ,” he whispers, but he’s immediately interrupted by his lover’s mouth on his own, a passionate kiss that seems never ending to him. His arms lift up so that his hands can meet Tolys’ chest, tracing the familiar trail of the jagged and bumpy scar that runs across his ribs. He feels him shiver at the touch— he breaks the kiss for a moment to sigh, and inhale, and moan, his breath so close to Feliks’ chin. 

“You are so pretty, Lord Polska,” he hums as he strokes Feliks’ face. 

It’s a simple compliment— it’s so silly, but it makes him blush even more. His face is perfectly camouflaged among the hideous embroidery of the couch, antique rose flowers on a dusty beige background. 

“In all my travels,” Tolys continues, “I have never met a lord so fair as you. Not even in Valhalla, where the Valkyries ride, have I seen such beauty—”

“Are you serious?” Feliks pulls back, reclining further into the couch. “Fucking Damon the viking? Right now?”

“His name is Damien—”

“Not my point”, he snorts, puffing up his cheeks. “God, Tolys. Just fuck me already!”

The bluntness makes Tolys’ jaw drop, and his face bright red. 

“Um, uh, okay. As you wish, Lord Polska...”

He kisses Feliks’ breast before he shifts slightly and sits up, gently lifting one of his legs on his lap. The blunt honesty that possessed Feliks a moment before is completely gone.

He feels exposed, vulnerable, follows the direction of Tolys’ eyes right between his thighs. 

Oh, shit, it’s really happening, isn’t it.

His heart pounds faster and harder as his lover’s fingers slip from his knee to his groin, with a caress soft as silk. 

The first contact with his clitoris is an electric shock down his spine, it makes his legs shake and his mouth dry, a sign that it has been far too long since they have last done this. It makes him forget his embarrassment, his permanent fight to be at peace with his body. Tolys is a master at his own art, perfected during an eternity of learning how to please the man he had married and how to make him feel comfortable; his thumb moves in circles, rhythmically, occasionally wandering off to let him stop to admire his work.

A work that pays off his efforts, at least from the way that Feliks is squirming and melting like hot wax in his hands. 

He brings his left hand closer, and touches lightly between his labia before he suddenly stops.

“Feliks,” he hesitates, his voice shaky. “Is this alright?”

His index finger pokes at his entrance, and the slight contact is enough to make Feliks gasp. 

“ _ Fuck _ ! Yeah, oh my god,  _ please— _ ”

Tolys leans down to kiss where his lips can reach, right below Feliks’ sternum. His brown hair has completely come undone, it falls down in messy curls that  _ tickle _ , Feliks notes, he can’t help but giggle until he feels it— first it’s one finger, going in slowly and tentatively; then it’s two, and by then, the sounds and smells and lights in the room become a kaleidoscope.

He can hear Tolys’ voice, a muffled siren’s song in the distance, suffocated by the sound of his own moans getting louder and louder. 

_ Are... close? Are you close? _

He thinks that’s what he just heard, and he nods, and manages to let out a slurred “yes”.

The flick of his thumb then gets faster, and with his other hands he pushes a little deeper each time, keeping the rhythm of Feliks’ bucking hips as the pleasure builds up, turns up all the way until it’s unbearable, and— 

____________

As soon as he’s done, Tolys pulls his fingers out to lean forward, his naked chest slipping over Feliks’ still trembling body.

“I love you,” he says as he dips his head down to kiss him once again.

“Mmm. ‘Love you too.”

Feliks smiles, blissed out, love-struck like it’s the first time. He touches Tolys’ cheek as he reciprocates his kisses, and he can feel his blood pump under the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you want me to like… you know. Do something for you, too?”

He winks, licking his lips in anticipation. However, Tolys smiles and shakes his head.

“No, not right now? I need to watch the bread in the oven, before it gets burned. Maybe later tonight, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, sure! I completely forgot about that.”

Now that he snapped back into reality, though, the smell of freshly-baked goods is inescapable. The stomach rumble follows suit, making it known that he did, indeed, skip breakfast that morning.

Tolys laughs and kisses him again. “I’ll better wash my hands and get lunch ready, then. Do you need to take another shower?”

“Yeah, I… made a mess, huh.”

“Not  _ a mess _ . You were amazing.”

“If you say so,” Feliks shrugs, “I can’t wait to try the bread, with whatever poison you’ve picked for me this time, Liet.”

“I’ll have you know, everything I picked is perfectly edible.” 

He replies to Tolys’ banter by sticking out his tongue, before he decides to finally stand up and face the cold shower once again. 

Outside the small window he catches a glimpse of the sunlight, timidly passing through the foliage. _ It’s so beautiful _ , he thinks, and for the first time he truly means it.

“Tolys?”

His boyfriend’s head perks up from the other side of the room. “Yes?”

“I really like it here, you know. We should come here again. If you want me to, of course.”

“Mhm,” he nods, “whenever you want.  _ Kochanie _ .”

Ah, after all those years, that word still makes Feliks’ heart flutter. 

“Tolys.”

He stops once again, looking up at the wall. There is still something he needs to ask.

“What is it?”

“These beautiful watercolors… did you paint them yourself?”

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, so this... I'm so sorry for being absent for months... and when I come back, I literally just post smut. I feel really self conscious about this fic, actually- I feel like it's not sexy enough to be proper erotica, not funny enough to be more of a fluffy romantic comedy... eh, I'm trying to relax and let myself go without being constrained by endless perfectionism, so take it as is! o_o Its own silly little divertissement. 
> 
> I sent this to my boyfriend to beta, and he says that it really stands out just how much I enjoy describing attractive men and like... I mean, he ain't wrong! I really like to dip into the self indulgence of the trans gay male gaze sometimes lol. I am but a simple gay, with an eternal crush on my man Lithuania jdhjsh what can I say,
> 
> As always thank you to everyone who read until the end and to all of you who always support my work, it means the world to me! <3 
> 
> (And also just because apparenly it needs to be said no transphobic comments please and thanks, no asking me where's the penises or why are they trans, I literally got no time nor patience for this shit, if you don't like it don't read, and if you decided to read anyway kindly keep it to yourself :V)


End file.
